Ain't You Ashamed?
by Artemis Rex
Summary: Christine Weston is a Social, and she knows her place is at the top of the high school food chain. She would never give a greaser the time of day - until she finds herself stranded at a DX Station, and the only person who can help her is Sodapop Curtis.


Author's Note: Well, I was a bit of a lazy bitch last weekend, and didn't update the chapter of Saving Grace I had ready, so here's a goody to say I'm sorry. Working on some Dallas/Sylvia stuff and something featuring my favorite Shepard gang-member, Jimmy Lewis, that will mesh with something Marsonfire is working on - dances and musicals and riots. So I promise to be a little bit less lazy when it comes to updating.

Disclaimer: I don't know "The Outsiders" or "Ain't You Ashamed," performed by June Carter Cash.

_"... you'll make him a failure and break him as a man... "_

Sodapop wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand. His T-shirt stuck to him and sweat tickled his temples and the nape of his neck. The heat shimmered on the blacktop, softening it.

He was retreating into the relative coolness of the garage when a tow truck pulled up, hauling a blue Corvette. He recognized the truck - Star Lake Towing - but he didn't recognize the car.

"Hey, Ernie," Soda called. He waved at the burly, rough man who clambered down from the cab with the agility of a monkey.

"Hello, Sodapop." He hustled to the other side of the cab.

Curious why Ernie wasn't in the back, winching the car down, Soda followed him.

Ernie took a leather pocketbook from a pretty blonde girl balanced in the passenger side doorway. He hair was stiffly perfect and her expression was polite, but strained.

Soda hid a smile; his mother always said it wasn't nice to laugh at people. Soda didn't have much to remember her by now, so he treasured what he did have, even if it was only advice. There were a lot of things he wished he could ask her advice on now.

The girl almost radiated discomfort, and her polite smile was crumpled around the edges. She looked like a Soc, and he guessed she didn't enjoy the ride none too much.

"Who'dya have here, Ern?" he asked.

"This is Miss Christine Weston," Ernie said. One of the girl's tiny hands disappeared into his great oil-stained paw as he helped her out of the cab. "Lucky thing for her Ol' Bess an' I come along right after her motor give out. She didn't have to wait or nothin'. I told her I'd take her to the best garage in town, an' here we are. Where's Magic Man?"

Ernie liked to call Steve Magic Man.

"He's actually got the night off for once," Soda said. "He got into a fight with Carl Hamilton and got dragged down to the city jail. His girl's sore 'bout it and he's making nice with her."

"Women," Ernie sighed and shook his head. "Present company excluded, of course," he said kindly, turning to Christine.

She gave him a brittle smile; if she didn't look like she was going to fly to pieces every time someone looked at her, she'd be real pretty. Soda liked blondes, almost as much as Two-Bit.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked him politely.

"You owe me twenty dollars, miss," Ernie said.

She gave him three tens, and Soda raised his eyebrows. Thirty dollars was more than he earned all day at the DX. If this girl was a good tipper, he'd take care of that car like it was his own newborn son. Darry liked to make like they were doing fine, but a big tip like the one she gave Ernie would go a long way at the Curtis house.

"Do you think you can get it fixed today?" she asked.

Ernie circled to the back of the truck to work the winch.

Soda shrugged apologetically. "Sorry; I won't know anything until I get a look at it. I'll do the best I can, though."

Christine made a sour face. "Can I use your phone? I'll pay for the call." She reached into her pocketbook again.

The winch whirred as the car lowered gently to the ground.

"Naw, you don't need to do that. Not if it's a local call," he said, uncomfortable.

Why did the Socs assume everything cost money? He sure would hate to hang around a bunch of people who never did anything nice for one another just out of common decency.

She paused. "Do you have a payphone?"

The car settled to the ground.

"Yeah, 'long side the building."

She nodded and, turning, almost ran smack into Ernie, who came back around, wiping his hands on a dirty blue bandanna.

"Excuse," he said. "You need a ride anywhere else?"

"No, thanks, I'm calling my boyfriend now. He'll come get me."

"Alright, little lady." Ernie tipped the bill of his baseball cap. "Sodapop is a good kid; he'll see that your car is fixed. You be careful now."

Soda grinned at Ernie; there wasn't many adults who'd recommend a greaser kid, but Ernie was cool. He knew the score.

Ernie and Ol' Bess chugged off, and Christine picked her way across the lot to the payphone. She wrapped a handerchief around the handset before picking it up, but Soda pretended not to notice as he looked under the hood, trying to suss out what made the engine cut out. Not seeing anything obvious, he waited for her to get back so she could tell him what happened and give him the keys.

She came back from the payphone, and he could tell she was upset.

"Whattsa matter?" he asked, noticing his jeans were smeared with engine oil. Everything at the garage was dirty, but he never minded. Garages were supposed to be dirty, but the way she grimaced and wrinkled her nose and peered at the ground, like every step was dubious, bothered him.

"My boyfriend isn't home," she said, biting her lip. "Do you think you could take me home?"

"Sorry," Soda said. He could see his fat tip flap away like a big-ass bird. "I can't leave the station. There ain't no one else to run the pumps or nothin'."

"He was supposed to meet me for study group at his house today," she said pleadingly.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, kissing any tip goodbye. "I can't take you now, but in a couple hours, when I get off, I will."

"A couple of hours," she said.

"It's the best I can do."

"I could take a bus," she offered.

Sodapop winced. "Can't. The buses quit running at five on Sundays."

Her shoulders slumped.

"It'll be alright. It's only a couple of hours an' maybe it won't take too long to fix your car."

xxxxx

Christine huddled in the corner of the garage, trying not to touch anything. It was all covered with oil or grease. She wondered where Dave was; she knew where he was supposed to be and was angry with him. Even if she didn't need his help, she was mad he blew her off. So she stood there, tried not to touch anything and fumed, while the greaser tried to fix her car.

He kept up a steady stream of conversation in a cheerful, light tone. Mostly about the stifling heat and the upcoming football game between Rodgers and their cross-city rival - safe and bland. He knew they had, and could never have, anything in common.

"I'm sorry," he said, coming around the car and wiping his hands on a ragged old shirt. "This is gonna take all night; the rod's busted but good. We close up in an hour or so, an' I'll take you home."

"Thanks." She sighed, her shoulders slumping, and twisted Dave's promise ring around her finger. It was a bad nervous habit, but Christine didn't want to spend the next hour here.

"I'm sorry," he said again, twisting the t-shirt. "I wish it was something easy."

She looked up at him; he was pretty cute - for a greaser. She didn't get why they wore so much hair grease; it was so out of style. Cute or not, she didn't want to hang around here, watching him.

Christine considered walking home, but this was the bad side of town and she didn't want to deal with the catcalls and harassment she'd surely encounter, now that the sun was going down. Or worse.

"Is there anywhere for me to sit?" she finally asked. She was really going to give Dave a piece of her mind. She was so mad, she was nearly in tears.

"In the office, I guess." He paused. "It's a little greasy."

"Oh." She gripped her purse tighter. A little greasy. Of course. She wanted to laugh, but didn't quite dare. She started when he started unbuttoning his chambrey work shirt.

"Wait, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice thin and wavering. Suddenly, she remembered all the horror stories she'd heard about greasers and the way they treated girls. She shrank back.

"Cool out," he said, frowning. "I'm going to let you sit on it so you don't get dirty." He turned it inside out. "See? If you use the inside to sit on, you'll be fine."

He offered it to her, and, blushing, she reached for it. Their fingers brushed; his hands were warm and rough. She jerked back, hands shaking. For a split second, some small, dark part of her wondered how those calloused hands would feel like on her skin.

"Thanks." She flushed with embarassment.

He gave her a long look; she had the feeling he was judging her and she was found wanting.

Christine held herself still and gave him a cold look. She didn't know who he thought he was; he was only a greaser. A greaser with a full, kissable mouth that made Christine wonder what it would feel like on her mouth . . . and other places. But he was still only a greaser; no one, really.

"No sweat," he said shortly, before turning back to the car.

xxxxx

Soda could feel her eyes on him. He was used to being looked at by girls. He couldn't count how many times girls breathlessly told him how handsome he was; Soda didn't understand why they bothered to tell him like it was a new discovery he'd never heard before. It might be nice for one of them to say they liked something other than his face. It wasn't like he could take credit for it.

They all watched him - out of the corner of their eyes if they were prissy or up and down like he didn't have a brain in his head if they were bold. It made him uncomfortable, though.

His shoulder blades itched, and he tried to keep up a conversation, but he couldn't stop thinking about the look on her face when he'd taken off his DX shirt. It wasn't like he didn't have a T-shirt under it. He wouldn't undress in front of a girl he didn't know.

That look on her face - she thought he was going to do something to her. It made him stiff and short with her; he knew what she thought - he was nothing but a filthy greaser, who'd jump at a chance to rape a nice girl, because he didn't have anything better to do in between killing babies and drinking blood.

The only damn thing he'd been trying to do was be nice to her, and he wished he hadn't promised to take her home now, because being confined in the truck with her, knowing what she thought of him, was going to be its own private hell.

Talking to fill the silence, her eyes on him, the seconds crawled by.

xxxxx

She figeted while he talked, tension thrumming under the artifically light tone of his voice. She wanted to tell him to stop, to just be quiet, but they were pretending he wasn't a greaser and she wasn't afraid of him. She wanted to be more afraid of him. She wanted that little dark voice to shut up.

So he talked and she looked around the garage. It was dirty, crowded and cluttered. She'd never been in an automotive shop before, and Christine guessed they must all look like this.

She looked over at him, bent over the engine, his arms greasy up to the elbows. Christine had never really talked to anyone who did manual labor or got dirty when they worked. Her dad was a manager at Tulsa First National Bank, and all her friends' fathers worked in offices, too.

The greaser must work outside sometimes, because he was tanned, and the T-shirt he was wearing left his most of his shoulders and arms bare. Christine tried not staring at him, but the T-shirt was damp and clung to him. His muscles were well-defined, more than most of the boys she knew, not that she'd ever seen any of them stripped down to their undershirts. Maybe it was all the manual labor. She felt flushed.

Trying to look at anything but him, time slowed to a near stop.

xxxxx

Soda breathed a sigh of relief when the clock finally reached eight; thank God that it wasn't Friday or Saturday. Then, he'd be stuck there with this quiet, sullen girl until ten. Soda didn't think he could handle it. He wasn't done with the car, but he could finish it first thing in the morning. He'd even come in early to get it done before it got busy.

"Time to go," he said, trying for a breezy tone.

She hopped off of the cracked barstool and handed him his shirt. "Thanks," she muttered, not looking him in the eye.

Her shoulders were slumped and she seemed whipped six ways to Sunday. Soda softened a little; she looked like she might be sorry. He knew it was hard to say sorry sometimes. Having a front-row seat to Darry and Pony's constant battle of wills had taught him that.

"Sorry you had to wait so long," he offered, trying to make peace.

She looked at him and gave him one of those brittle smiles. "Yeah, I'm sorry, too . . . putting you to all this trouble."

She looked away, and Soda wondered what made her so tense, like she'd break into a million pieces if someone touched her.

"It's okay, it's my job," he said.

"Not to drive me home," she said.

"Gimme a couple minutes to shut down the pumps an' stuff?" He tossed the shirt over his shoulder; it was still hot and he was glad to have an excuse to take it off.

"Sure," she said, hugging her pocketbook.

She watched his every move like a scared mouse watching a cat. Was she still afraid of him?

Soda quickly neatened up the office, turned off the lights and pumps and flipped the sign to "closed." It only took him maybe ten minutes, but the blonde girl already was tapping her foot when he came back into the garage. She stopped when she saw him and gave him another terse smile. She reminded him of a half-broke colt, liable to bolt at just about anything.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Please." She followed him out to the battered old truck that had been their dad's. Soda liked driving it, because it made him feel closer to his dad somehow, although wild horses wouldn't have drug it out of him.

He helped her into the truck, noticing how good she smelled, minty and sweet, when her hair brushed his shoulder. Soda's stomach did a long, slow roll and his heart stutter-kicked. He wished he hadn't noticed.

xxxxx

She watched his profile, backlit by the setting sun, as they jounced down the street. She wished she hadn't broke down so far from home or the tow truck driver had taken her to another garage. Christine couldn't believe she was feeling bad about putting a greaser in his place, even though a small voice was nagging her and telling her she'd been rude.

"I'm sorry about the way I was acting to you earlier," she said, giving him a sideways glance. She couldn't believe she was apologizing to a greaser.

"It's okay," he said, giving her a genuine, sunny smile.

It was breath-taking and it drew her eyes back to his mouth. She looked away, butterflies in her stomach. Christine breathed in and out slowly; she was not getting all giggly because a greaser smiled at her.

"Hey, you okay?" He reached out and touched her shoulder. His calloused fingertips brushed her bare arm and she shivered.

She shrugged his hand off, watching his concerned expression become blank and shuttered.

The boy didn't say anything, just looked straight ahead, driving.

Christine sighed.

"We aren't getting along, are we?" she said.

"Ain't too surprising," he said, still not looking at her. "Being that you're a Soc an' I'm . . . not."

"You're a greaser," she said, before immediately wishing she hadn't been so stupidly blunt.

He was quiet for a moment. "Yeah, I am," he said. "Ain't ashamed of it, either."

"I never thought you should be," she said, stung.

He shook his head, then paused. "If you didn't think that, then you woulda never . . . ah, hell, never mind. It ain't worth it."

"No," she said, snapping and unsnapping her pocketbook. "What were you going to say?"

"I turn on this street?" he asked, stopping for a four-way stop.

"Left," she said. "What were you going to say?"

"Back at the garage, you was acting like I was going to hurt you," he said. "I wasn't."

She shifted in her seat. He had caught that.

"I didn't think that," she said. "Not really."

"Yeah, you did," he said flatly.

She looked out the window. "It's just, y'know . . . you hear things."

"From Socs," he said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He still was staring straight ahead, concentrating on driving.

"And greasers never tell stories on us?" she said, her cheeks getting hot.

He glanced over at her, frowning. "Well, maybe," he allowed.

"So let's just agree that we're just all wrong about each other," she said hotly.

xxxxx

Sodapop looked over at her. Christine's eyes were flashing with anger and her cheeks were pink. "I wouldn't mind that," he said.

"What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I wouldn't mind . . . being wrong about you, I mean," he said.

She was snapping and unsnapping her pocketbook and looking down at her hands. "I wouldn't mind being wrong about you, either."

There was silence for a minute.

"This is my house," she said.

He pulled into the driveway of a house so big, it made his place look like a tool shed. Man, these people must be loaded.

"Thanks," she said, giving him a genuine smile. It was the first time since he'd met her she didn't look like she was going to jitter apart like a faulty machine.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

She got out and ran up the walk. Soda sat there for a few minutes, thinking about that last smile. Then he drove home slowly, wondering what it all meant.

xxxxx

Christine walked into the house, the hushed atmosphere was funeral.

"Mom? Dad? I'm home; I'm okay," she called as she walked in the front door.

No response.

Christine wasn't surprised. There'd been no answer earlier when she'd called for them to pick her up. She walked into the dining room and noticed the bills and note thrown on top of the table.

_Chrissy,_

_ Daddy and I have gone to the Rotary black tie ball. Here's some money for you and your friends to get something to eat. I hope you had a nice time at Dave's and got a lot of studying done._

_ Love you,_

_ Mom_

Christine looked at the money with dull eyes, before picking it up and stuffing into her pocket.

xxxxx

"You're early," Steve commented. "I see a new car come in yesterday."

"How was last night?" Soda popped the hood of the 'Vette.

"Shit, I don't understand girls." Steve rummaged in a tool box."What's amatter with the car?"

"Busted rod," Soda replied. "I started it yesterday. Shouldn't take no more'n hour or two to finish."

"Yeah, you think so?" Steve poked his head under the hood and took a look. "Damn, that doesn't look good. What have you been doing without me?"

"I know so," said Soda, grinning. "Won't be no time at all. Gimme that crescent wrench. What's up with you an' Evie now?"

"She's mad again," Steve sighed. "All sore over me getting into it with Hamilton an' getting drug down to jail. Wouldn't had to, if she'd leave him be."

"You tell her that?" Soda loosened a bolt.

"Yeah." Steve grapped up a second wrench. "An' then she got all upset and we got into a fight. An' then she started cryin' over me getting cold cocked by that bastard O'Lafferty."

"He did a number on you," Soda said.

Officer O'Lafferty was meaner than cat-dirt, and, when there was a greaser involved, he pulled his billy club faster than you could say "how do." When Steve and Hamilton went at it, O'Lafferty took to swinging like he was Babe Ruth.

"Ain't so bad." Steve pulled out a comb and whipped it through his hair. "I was only out a couple hours."

"Speakin' of not understanding girls, you should have seen the girl who come in with this car yesterday." Soda shook his head. "You got the other side?" He wrapped his hands around the part.

"Yeah," Steve said, grabbing the other side. "So what's up with the chick?"

"Strangest girl I've seen in a while, not counting Trish or Slyvia," said Soda, as they lifted the rod free. "Come in here with Ern, all jumpy an' nervous. I swear she thought I was gonna rape her or somethin'."

"Shit, Sodapop Curtis havin' to rape somebody?" Steve said, laughing. "Man, you got so many girls lined up, I swear you don't know what to do with 'em all. How's Sandy, anyway?"

They set the part on a nearby bench.

Soda scowled as he ripped the cardboard packaging from a new part.

"We got into a fight. Her parents think we're too young to be gettin' so serious." He tossed the cardboard into the garbage. "Sometimes, I think that she agrees with them."

Soda frowned. Sandy seemed like she was pulling away, sometimes. He couldn't count the number of times he'd gone home with blue balls lately.

"Shit, we oughta ditch 'em both an' date every damn girl on the North Side," said Steve, grabbing one end of the part.

"You mean that?" Soda grunted.

"Hell, no," Steve said, hefting his end. "Me an' Evie just made up. She was real accommodatin'. Damn, that girl's something else when she wants to be. If she wasn't so damn much trouble, I'd marry her ass."

"No you wouldn't." Soda helped him seat the part into the engine.

"You're right, I wouldn't."

xxxxx

"Hey, Chrissy," Dave said. "I missed you last night. Why didn't you come down to the Way Out?"

"Because, Dave," she said through gritted teeth, glad they were speaking over the phone, so he couldn't see how upset she was. "I was stuck at a hole in the wall gas station last night after my car broke down."

"Tough luck, Chrissy," he said sympathetically. "Why didn't you call me?"

She closed her eyes and counted to ten.

"I did call you. At your house. Where you were supposed to be. Our study date?"

"What?"

"Our study date? Yesterday?"

"Oh, man, Chrissy, I completely forgot."

"I know," she said icily.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said testily. "It's not my fault your car broke down."

"I guess forgetting me wasn't your fault either." She strangled a stuffed animal with one hand. She was curled up in the middle of her bed, a canopy with lots of pink and lace. Her parents thought Christine was about ten years younger than she actually was.

"I said I was sorry. You wouldn't be so mad if your car hadn't broke down."

"That just doesn't cut it." She bit back tears; you didn't show emotion in their crowd. Emotion was a weakness, and weakness wasn't tolerated. "You're not sorry; you don't really care."

A sigh from the other end of the line. "I do care, Christine. I'm sorry I didn't know where you were. You know I would have come and picked you up."

"I had to spend the evening at a dirty old gas station with some greaser mechanic because of you."

Silence for a long moment. She stewed; if he had hung up on her . . .

"Tim Conaway said he saw you getting out of some greaser's truck yesterday."

"What?" Her stomach dropped. She hadn't thought anyone had seen her. "Are you spying on me now?"

"Don't take any 'spying' to notice a piece of junk truck like that in a neighborhood like this," he said disdainfully. "What are you doing letting some greaser drive you home anyway?"

"He took me home because you forgot about me," she snarled into the phone before slamming it down.

She closed her eyes, counted to ten and breathed. She hated losing control. She hated it.

Thank God her father was playing golf and her mother was out with the Church Women United; she didn't want to deal with the questions they would have if they heard her fighting with Dave over the phone.

She had just burst into tears when the doorbell rang.

xxxxx

That little Corvette was pretty damn tuff, Soda thought as he hummed along toward the South Side. He couldn't help but put it through its paces; he'd never driven anything like it. The Corvette shifted as smooth as silk and took corners like nobody's business. He was really enjoying himself; he didn't figure he'd get a chance to drive such a nice car for a long time.

He'd drop off the car and take the bus back. Maybe that'd make up for the stiffness yesterday and he'd end up with that tip he'd been hoping for. Pony needed a new pair of shoes for track; he couldn't run fast in the busted-out old ones he had now. Soda grinned, imagining the look on Pony's face if he brought home a brand new pair of shoes. Pony would really fly; get a scholarship, maybe.

Steve had asked him if he wanted him to follow in his car and take him back to the station after he'd dropped the car off. That would leave the station unattended, and if they were caught, they would lose their jobs. Soda couldn't afford to lose his job; they were barely making it now.

Steve had grunted and asked him why he was so hard up to take the car over that morning and added, if he waited, they could drop the car after work. Soda had brushed him off.

He swung the car to the curb and parked. It didn't look like anyone was home, even though the line had been busy when he'd left the station. He walked up to the door, wondering if he'd wasted his time. The door was big enough for two men to walk in side-by-side and had two long, skinny windows on either side. Soda rang the doorbell and stood on the porch, shuffling his feet and feeling like he didn't belong.

He was halfway down the walk, heading back to the car, when he heard the door open.

"Hey," he heard her say. Her voice was breathy, like she'd been crying.

Soda turned around, noting her red eyes and mussed hair. Her perfect composure had cracked, revealing a very unhappy girl.

"Hey," he said, taking three steps up the walk without realising it. "Are you okay?"

She tried to draw herself together, but crumbled instead. Christine turned away from him, covering her face with her hands, and started to cry.

Forgetting about how uncomfortable he'd been only a few minutes before, he went to her and patted her back awkwardly.

"Hey, don't cry," he said, rubbing her back soothingly - he hoped so, anyway. He looked around nervously. The last thing he needed was some Soc seeing them and thinking he was assaulting her.

She only shook her head, trying to avoid his eyes.

"Look here." He gently moved her hands away from her face. "What's the matter? Has someone hurt you?"

She tried retreating into the house and shutting the door on him, but the jamb didn't stick and the door swung open again.

He stood on the doorstep, listening to her cry somewhere in there, and pushed hesitantly on the door, hoping she wouldn't scream bloody murder.

"Hey, look, are you okay?" He squinted in the dim light. He thought it was maybe a hallway, but that was like saying the Sistine Chapel was a church.

"Go away." She was standing across the hall, light from a stained-glass window falling over her face and painting it red and blue.

He stopped just inside the door. Soda wasn't anxious to get the fuzz called on him.

"I brought your car back." He held the keys out. "Are you okay? You seem kinda upset. Is there somethin' I can do?"

xxxxx

Christine looked up at him, this greaser who'd showed her more concern and kindness than her own boyfriend and parents over the past few days. This greaser with his rough hands and soft mouth.

"No, no," she said. "I'm just being stupid, just, please, what do I owe you? I'll pay you."

"Hey, no, look," he said. "I can't leave you alone like this. You're a mess."

She didn't want his comfort. If he comforted her, she'd fall apart. She had already fallen apart. If someone - someone who counted - saw her like this, she'd just die.

He looked like he thought she might bite him, but he put his arms around her. His arms were strong and his skin was hot enough to scorch.

Christine started crying so hard she could barely breathe. She wasn't really sure why or how she started kissing him, only that she was and he was protesting, trying to comfort her and push her away at the same time.

"I don't want to take advantage of you," he said. "You're outta your mind."

He protested, but she was determined. Not only was he beautiful - not handsome, but beautiful - but there also was the thrill of doing something she shouldn't. His mouth was a soft as she had imagined, and, maybe, in her most innermost and private thoughts, had hoped.

He was so different from the boys she was used to, his rough hands on her shoulders, the smell of motor oil lingering on his skin like cologne.

Christine was used to getting her way, and she was going to get it this time, too.

The greaser protested, but she knew she was pretty and he also felt the pull of the forbidden. They shouldn't do this, it would ruin both of them. That was why they were going to do it.

"Please," she said. "No one else will find out."

"No, it ain't right when you're like this," he said, but his protests were weakening.

She knew he was strong enough to pull away from her if he wanted, but he didn't. She had one arm around his neck, and she slid the other down his stomach. He had been touched by those crass greaser girls like this, no doubt, but she was as different to him as he was to her. No good girl would ever let him touch her like this . . .

He closed his eyes, swallowing.

"Don't leave me alone," she said.

"I won't," he gasped.

xxxxx

Soda couldn't believe what they had done, and from the expression on her face, she couldn't either.

She'd been all over him a few minutes ago, when she'd been crying and begging him to stay. Now, she was avoiding even looking at him, like he'd done something terrible to her, instead of giving her exactly what she'd asked for. What she'd begged for.

Christine pulled her clothes back on slowly, looking away from him, wild Irish roses burning in her cheeks.

He turned away from her and pulled his jeans up over his lean hips. Soda had the feeling if he turned quick enough, he'd catch her watching him. He was glad he'd had enough sense to at least kick the door shut before they went at it right there on the hallway floor. Like animals; Jesus.

"You aren't going to tell anyone, are you?" she asked.

He went stiff. So he was good enough to screw, but she didn't want anybody to know about it.

"I don't know." He thought about what Steve or Dally would do. They'd probably tell everybody and anybody, just because she'd asked.

The look on her face when he said it made him feel terrible, like she thought he was someone who hurt the small and weak for the fun of it.

"Sodapop," she begged, "please don't tell anyone, please don't!"

It was the first time she'd used his name. Even when they had been screwing, she hadn't used his name.

"Why?" He turning away from her. No wonder Dallas hated them all so much. Soda had never felt so bitter. "You worried 'bout your boyfriend . . . or 'bout everyone knowin' you messed with a greaser?"

She had her clothes mostly back on, and the look on her face was terrible, like she expected him to brag it all over town and she was just bracing for it. He wished he'd never seen how miserable she was, because he couldn't do anything to someone like that. It'd be like kicking a dog.

"I ain't telling anybody," he said, roughly, pulling his shirt back on. "Just don't come back around, you hear?"

She nodded slowly, getting up. "What do I owe you?"

He froze, staring at her.

"For the car," she said, blushing. "What do I owe you?"

"Fifty," he said shortly, just wanting to get the hell out of there.

She handed him seventy-five dollars, and Soda debated throwing the "tip" back in her face.

He wondered if it was for the service or for the screwing he'd given her. He felt sick to his stomach. He'd never thought that he could feel so bad after sex. Then he thought about how Pony's toes were practically sprouting from the ends of his sneakers, and he put the money in his pocket, avoiding looking at her.

"I don't want to see you around the DX." He glared at her. Everytime he saw her, he imagined he'd feel just like this - foolish, stupid, just not good enough. It was bad enough they already had everything, did she have to take his pride, too?

"No." She shook her head. Her lower lip was quivering, and Soda felt like shit. He'd only meant to comfort her, to be nice to her. He didn't understand how everything had gone so wrong.

Without another word, he walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

_" . . . look in the mirror, woman, ain't you ashamed? . . . "_


End file.
